Only Art Means Anything.

Neither Mine Nor Other People's Prospects Seem Particularly Pleasing Just At The Moment, And I Have Fantasies Of Going To Iceland, Never To Return. As It Is, I Tell Myself Not To Remember The Past, Not To Hope Or Fear For The Future, And Not To Think In The Present, A Comprehensive Program That Will Undoubtedly Have Very Little Success.

I Have Given Up Considering Happiness As Relevant.

The Suicide, As She Is Falling, Illuminated By The Moon, Regrets Her Act, And Finds Appalling The Thought She Will Be Dead So Soon.

To Take My Work Seriously Would Be The Height Of Folly.

A Small And Sinister Snow Seems To Be Coming Down Relentlessly At Present. The Radio Says It Is Eventually Going To Be Sleet And Rain, But I Don't Think So; I Think It Is Just Going To Go On And On, Coming Down, Until The Whole World...etc. It Has That Look.